


Elf in Dol Guldur

by esama



Series: Green Lord of Dol Guldur [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Feel-good, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Rebuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10735509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: After Battle of Erebor, Tauriel sets out for Dol Guldur.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed

Tauriel lost her position as the Captain of the Guard of the Woodland Realm. She's not really surprised by it, nor is she insulted, really. She'd lost her lord's trust and respect, she'd lost the respect of her warriors and, really, when she thought about it, maybe she'd lost her own respect as well.

Once, she might've been bitter about it, maybe even angry. But since Erebor, since… since Kíli, she can't really feel much at all.

She still does her duty for her king, lost respect or not. She doesn't really know what else to do with herself at this point. The world outside has lost it's golden gleam and everything has a grey overcast, like there are eternal clouds above her head, and nothing interests her anymore. So, Tauriel does what she's always done, what she knows how to do and what she knows she can still do well.

Quiet in more than movement, she guards the forests of the Greenwood, defending it from all that might do it ill. It's… not quite the least she could do, but at least this she can do right.

* * *

 

The forest is different since the Battle of Erebor. It's both quieter than it used to be – and more stirred. The spiders are still there, their numbers waxing and waning with the actions of the Woodland's guardsmen, as they eradicate nests only to have them re-appear not a moon after. There are orcs in the woods too – the scattered remnants of the forces they had mustered for the taking of Erebor. And there are wargs too.

But they have lost some of the cohesion of before. When before there had been a force out there, pushing their numbers outwards from Dol Guldur, sending them out to raid… now they mill about and wander, directionless and confused. It makes it easy to take them out, if nothing else.

In the first week of her own aimless wandering in the darkened wood, she takes out no less than dozen orcs and a whole spider nest, killing beasts and slicing their eggs open, watching the milky white yolk of their unborn young spill onto the forest floor, sink into the already stained, ugly earth.

It's too little too late, Tauriel fears. The Greenwood – Mirkwood – is long since tainted, and even if they eradicated all the Fell things that wandered under it's canopy, she doubts it will be enough to heal the ancient forest. The poison has seeped into the ground, up the roots of the old trees, and it lives in the wood itself, now. Evil has mingled into the colours of the forest like unwelcome dye, and it paints everything in foul shades.

It has, she thinks, seeped into the halls of the Woodland realm itself, a shadow presence in the hearts and minds of the once great Elven people. They aren't like the elves of Lothlórien, after all. They have no ancient defence against time and evil and their terrible combination here.

Tauriel lets loose another arrow and watches another orc fall and wonders about losing battles. Erebor had, by all accounts, been a victory. And yet even now, it still feels like a defeat.

* * *

 

It's been days, it's been weeks, since Tauriel has seen the Halls she'd once protected. Idly she wonders if they think she'd died there – possibly. She's not sure she hadn't thought it herself, when she'd set out with nothing but her clothes and her weapons. And yet she survives, eating what roots and leaves and seeds she deems safe and the occasional small prey she dares to slay. The forest is cruel now, but it keeps her fed.

She doesn't go back – she doesn't feel any need to go back. The idea of returning to the splendour of those halls, under the eyes of her kin, her _king_ who looks on her with censure and pity… With Legolas gone to parts unknown, she doesn't feel it her place. She doesn't feel she has the strength to face it.

So, she remains in the forest and learns it anew – learns the changed habits of the animals of the forest, and how the plants have twisted and changed. She watches out for Fell things and slays them when she can, and tries to recall the time when there'd been flowers in the forest.

Slowly, the orcs are weeded out of those parts of the forest. It's not only her doing the work – the guardsmen of the Woodland Realm are hard at the task too. Tauriel avoids their patrols – but sees their handiwork in the dead their leave behind.

Eventually the grounds around Thranduil's palace are safer.

And so Tauriel heads further south in search of… whatever meaning she can still find in her existence.

* * *

 

The Emyn nu Fuin are completely infested. The have been for a long while now, and even watching them from a distance Tauriel feels the old hurt and disgust she'd felt, long ago, when her people had been driven out there but the encroaching darkness.

Once upon a time, her people had a place to call their own, a realm of their own, a place where they were a _people_ , rather than the looked-down-upon refuges of Thranduil's kingdom and court. She'd been born in those mountains – she'd been born underground, actually, during one of the early sieges when the weak and young – and the pregnant, like her mother – had been ushered to safety in the old mountain fortress.

Maybe that's why she'd felt such kinship with the dwarves. Tauriel had always felt more comfortable in the roots of Thranduil's palace than in it's lofty branches, safer where could see and feel the ground, rather than the sky. She wishes, quietly and distantly like through a dream and fog, that she'd had the chance to talk with Kíli about it. Or any dwarf, really.

She goes around the Emyn nu Fuin, and doesn't think about it again.

* * *

 

When the idea of going to Dol Guldur comes to her, Tauriel isn't entirely sure, but after a while she realises that what's where she's heading. South and souther still, further and further away the lands she knows, she aims directly at the old fortress.

She'd talked about clearing out the infestation in the old fortress for years, arguing with Thranduil about it, always to standstill with Thranduil forbidding any action and Tauriel bending to her king's will. Why she thinks going there might make a difference now, she isn't sure – it won't. Whatever force had resided there is long gone, and the Fell things in the forest have lost whatever led and directed them. In all likelihood she will find nothing at the fortress.

Still, that is where she goes, her pace quickening the closer she gets.

She's never seen the place, only heard of it from older Elves who remember it at various stages of it's existence. She knows that once, thousands of years ago, Silvan Elves had resided there and the Amon Lanc, the hill where Dol Guldur had been build, had been the centre of their realm. But they'd been pushed back, and back again, and Dol Guldur had been build, and those lands long lost.

She has seen drawings and paintings of how it used to be, and sketches the ruins it had became. Dol Guldur wasn't so much build on top of the old ruins as it is build amidst them, a ugly mix of elven design and orc destruction, yet another thing once beautiful befouled by darkness.

So Tauriel has a certain mental image of the place, which seems to grow stronger and fouler the closer she gets.

What she gets is something else entirely.

* * *

 

There are still orcs in Dol Guldur and they are without doubt the most worrisome orcs she has ever seen. They are bigger than any orc Tauriel has ever seen, even bigger than the Gundabad orcs – even bigger than the ones that slay Kíli and his kin. These orcs are full head taller than Azog and Bolg, and much thick in muscle.

They are also out and about in _full daylight_.

Tauriel hides in the shadow of the forest and watches in mounting horror. The greatest defence the Free People of Middle Earth have ever had against the Fell things that crawled in the shadows was the very fact that they had to remain in shadow. Sunlight was the greatest weapon against them, because Fell beings could not stand it touch. Even the strongest of dark things burned and petrified in sunlight.

And yet these orcs, these impossibly big brutes, are lounging about in sunlight, even peering up at it, looking only thoughtful and not in the slightest pained. And most of them are shirtless too, their torsos bared, not a single plate of shielding armour in sight. It is all so shocking that it takes Tauriel a moment to realise what they are doing out and about in full sunlight.

They are turning a field.

Three of them are wielding roughly made hoes and swinging them down into the hard packed ground like it was nothing but fresh mulch, tearing the ground open easy and effortless. Another two are tearing an cracked old tree stump out of the earth, one with a chain around it, another with a long pole to loose then roots with.

No, not a pole – a spear. And the orc is utterly heedless of how badly he must be ruining the blade by shoving it into the ground.

They are talking amongst them, too far away to be overheard, but as far as Tauriel can tell there is none of the growling and posturing she's more used to seeing from orcs. It looks almost… amiable. Almost companionable.

Then, as she wonders what to think – maybe she's gone mad and this is a some strange dream her mind had concocted to entertain her with… the orcs start to sing.

"… inn, there's a inn, there's a merry old inn," a deep baritone of an orc reaches over the distance as the other orcs grin and join in, "beneath a grey old hill, hey!" the orcs sing and almost theatrically point at the hill of Dol Guldur with it's ruins that Tauriel hasn't even looked on, and then they continue. "And there they brew a beer so brown that the man in the moon himself came down one night to drink his fill!"

Tauriel opens her mouth like in some absurd urge to _object_ to all of this, but the orcs keep on singing, turning back to their work as they do. The pull and push at the stump in tune and swing their hoes for beat and they _sing_ as they _work._

It is absurd, all of it is beyond absurd. She really must've gone mad, lost her mind in the shadows of Mirkwood. Maybe the forest had poisoned her, given her this strange hallucination by whatever fumes it had made her breathe. This, what she is seeing, cannot possibly be real. None of it makes sense.

Entranced and horrified, she creeps in close.

"I've never had beer," one of the orcs says, sounding thoughtful. "What even is beer?"

"How should we know? We've none of us never had beer," another orc says, bending down to pick up a fist sized rock from the freshly turned ground. He considers it for a moment and then throws it away. "You could ask Lordy."

"I'm going to," the first orc says, still sounding thoughtful. "It sounds really good, though."

"I'd rather have some bread, myself," a third orc, the one with the spear, says wistfully. "Did you _hear_ what Lordy said, about what it's like when it's fresh from oven, all steaming and crisp on the surface and soft inside, what it's like with just a bit of butter, all melting…"

The orcs share a wistful sigh.

"Wonder what's for lunch," another orc murmurs, peering up at the sky. "It's about lunch time, isn't it?"

"We're getting this done, and then lunch," the second orc says and grips the hoe. "And for your information, it's soup."

The other orc frowns at him. "You don't know that, Bandobras. How'd you know that?"

"Well it's always soup, isn't it?" the orc says and shrugs. "And it's going to keep on being nothing but soup until we get something else than wild roots to eat. So come on, back to work."

Tauriel leans against a tree trunk and stares as they get back to work. As she watches, they get the tree stump free of the ground and drag it away, turning to another to do the same while the other three orcs keep hoeing the ground in neat lines, preparing it for planting.

Orcs farming. Orcs talking _amiably_ about food – that wasn't people – and farming. And singing. Even now one of them was starting to hum some cheerful tune. It was almost more terrifying than the fact that they were still, happily, under the light of sun.

Still, she manages to pinpoint the key bit of information from the utterly nonsensical chatter. Lord. These orcs, unlike the aimless wanderers in the forest, have a Lord in Dol Guldur. Was it the Necromancer, already returned… or something else?

It would have to be something infinitely worse to make orcs like these, so strong, and invulnerable to sunlight.

The orcs eventually finish their tilling of the field, and the one called Bandobras claps one of the others on the shoulder. "Now we go grab some lunch," he says. "Let's go see what kind of soup we have this time."

"It might not be soup," another orc says hopefully.

"Sure it might be an eleven course banquet with stuffed turkeys and everything," Bandobras says with a snort. "And chicken legs swimming in fat and roasted potatoes crisp with salt with mushroom sauce and steamed carrots and…"

"Oh stop, you're making me _sad_ ," the other orc moans pitifully.

Bandobras laughs and claps him on the shoulder. "One day, Isengrim," he promises compassionately. "One day."

Tauriel stares after them, wordless and wide eyed, as they lumber off towards the fortress itself, chattering cheerfully as they go.


	2. Chapter 2

Thought she knows she should head out to warn her lord about these strange, strong orcs with their resistance against sunlight – either that or head out to clear her head from whatever fumes had brought forth this hallucination – Tauriel stays and observes.

Dol Guldur is and isn't like anything she'd imagined. It looks a lot like those old paintings she'd seen, the awful mixture of architecture is there. But the fortress isn't _dead_ like she'd thought it would be. There is grass growing from cracks between stones, and there are vines crawling up the sides of the walls, broken or otherwise.

And the orcs, once they're done with their soup, work at cleaning the place up. Or rather they do it after they've sat around for a bit, smoking a _pipe_. It's a small thing, vaguely familiar in design, and they pass it between them in obvious delight, making faces as they blow out smoke as if they're trying to make something of it. They're trying to, Tauriel decides, to blow out smoke rings, but they haven't mastered the trick yet.

She watches it all with her mind drawing a perfect, baffling blank as to how _explain_ this. As far as she's ever known, orcs do not do simple pleasures like this – not unless something or someone suffered for it.

After half an hour spend sitting around smoking, the orcs get back to work. The field they tilled is left aside and instead they turn to the ruins, to do small _chores_ to clean it. They carry out loose brickwork from broken walls to a single pile, and loose broken woodwork to another. One of them has a roughly made broom which he is using to sweep the pathways clean, brushing aside dead leaves and small pebbles and loose sand. And, Tauriel suspects, the inside of the fortress is also being cleaned and cleared out.

If she didn't know better, she would've thought they were making the place liveable. And not just in the sense orcs usually did – in which they simply settled in and made a mess of previously pleasant place, filling it with their filth. No, these orcs are doing the opposite, clearing out the filth.

Once she sees couple of the orcs even standing around a broken wall, considering it and the loose bricks as if wondering how to repair it.

And they're always talking. Not snarling or grunting or sneering – instead they chatter and _sing_ every so often. They're too far away now for her to hear, but their body language remains the same as it was with the orcs at the field, open and casual and comfortable. There are no hostile gestures, no posturing – except once when one of the orcs made a particularly clever pile of loose brickwork and showed it to the others with obvious pride.

Eventually it's gone for too long for it to be a vision or a hallucination, and she's stayed too long to justify mere observation. She needs to either return to the woodland realm to report what she's witnessed – or learn more.

So, when one of the orcs steps away from the fortress to pick up one of the crude hoes they'd used on the field, she takes him on arrow point.

* * *

 

Close up, the orc she captures is even stranger than at a distance. He is clean, for one – there is no smeared muck on him, no stains of dirt or blood or worse things, his skin is clean. The trousers he wear are properly orcish, more collection of patches sown together than actual fabric, but she can tell they've been washed and some attempt to make them serviceable has been made.

He has no boots, which Tauriel doesn't think much anything about right then.

"You, orc," she says as the brute stares at her in astonishment. "No sudden moves and don't you dare raise an alarm. Come here, slowly, into the shadow of the trees."

The orc eyes her, more curious than afraid or worried. "But it's cold there, and damp. Wouldn't you rather want to step here, into the light?" he says, very reasonably.

Tauriel releases the arrow. It nicks the orc on his shoulder and he lets out a yelp of pain and dismay, clapping his big palm over the small cut and turning to look behind him in astonishment, at the arrow now lodged into a tree. "What was that for?" he asks, almost plaintive. "That _hurt_!"

"Step into the shadow, orc," Tauriel orders, another arrow already on the string and aimed at him. "Or the next one will hit closer to the centre."

He makes a face at her, lifting his palm and looking at the nick. It's bleeding a little, and Tauriel is almost relieved to see the dark, almost black of usual orc blood. "Alright, alright, no need to be so rude about it," the orc says, sullen, and finally steps into the shadow.

Close up the orc is even bigger than she'd thought. Easily six feet tall with wide shoulders and broad planes, he's more a wall of rock than a living creature. Tauriel expects a stick that never comes. Orcs always smell a rotten and mouldy, like a sack of root vegetables left in damp for too long. This orc doesn't have that distinctive scent – all she can smell of him is earth and dust.

"Who is your lord?" Tauriel asks, opening with the most important. "Who rules Dol Guldur?"

"Well," the orc says, looking at her with sort of mingled confusion and curiosity and slight bit of apprehension which she doesn't find as pleasing as she thought she would. "That'd be Lordy, I suppose – though he don't like us calling us that. It's only the wizard called him that and the face he makes when we call him that is funny."

"The _wizard_?" Tauriel snaps. "What wizard?"

"The, uh, wizard. Gandalf? Are there more than the one?" the orc scratches at his cheek thoughtfully. "Well I guess it would make sense that there's more… going to have to ask Lordy about it."

Tauriel's bow almost sags before she snaps it back up. Gandalf? _Gandalf_?! Surely not. And yet the last she'd seen the Mithrandir, he'd been aiming for Dol Guldur – to investigate whatever clues the Necromancer might have left behind. Had he been captured by the orcs here?

"Where is he?" Tauriel demands to know. "Where did you take him, what have you done to him? Answer me, orc!"

The orc just looks at her. "Well, he's gone?" he then offers, confused. "It was week or so ago –"

"No, that's impossible," Tauriel says, shaking her head, flat out refusing to believe. "The dark lord himself couldn't kill the Istari, there is no conceivable way –"

"What's an Istari?" the orc asks curiously.

Tauriel breaths, trying to calm down while the orc just eyes her with that strange openness of expression. He's not once snarled at her, not so much as made a threatening face at her, and somehow that's worse than if he had. There is _reasonableness_ to him that makes him so much more worrisome.

You should be able to count on orcs being _orcish_. They never changed, they were never supposed to change. And yet this one is different. This one acts more like… like a _man_ if something, and it is doing terrible things to her calm, to have him so calmly tell her such horrible things.

"How many orcs are there here?" Tauriel asks. So far she's not seen more than a handful, but they were all of this terrible, new variety.

"There's nine of us, and Lordy of course," the orc says and then smiles at her. "Would you like me to introduce you? I mean, you're rude, but you're a guest – at least I think you're guest. And we should always be polite with our guests, even when they are rude."

Tauriel stares at him with disbelief for a moment. "No, I _don't_ want you to introduce me to the others!" she says.

"I'm sure they'd like you, even if you're rude," the orc offers comfortingly.

"No, just – shut up," Tauriel snaps at him and shakes her head. In few nonsensical sentences he's turned her all around – but still she caught it. Nine of them. Even if they're so large and strong, there is only nine. She could take out nine, with proper planning.

"Now that I think about it, you haven't introduced yourself at all, have you," the orc says, giving her a disapproving look. "My name is Mungo, by the by, at your service – though I wouldn't much like to be at your service, now that I think about it."

"I don't care about your _name_ , orc," Tauriel snarls.

"Rude," the orc says, almost pouting at her, and then he looks up as someone shouts in the fortress.

"Mungo, what are you on about?!" another orc shouts. "You were supposed to get that hoe, not goof off! And Lordy help me if you found another patch of mushrooms and didn't tell us!"

"I didn't!" Mungo shouts before Tauriel can do anything to stop him. "There's a rude person here and he won't tell his name!"

"What you mean, a rude person?"

"I mean _a rude person_ , what do you think I mean?" Mungo shouts. "And he's got a bow too and he's going to shoot me."

"Shut up!" Tauriel says, pulling the bow string back further. "Another word and I'll put an arrow in your throat!"

Mungo turns to look at her with a slight frown. "Now, I've been real patient with you," he says. "But really, what _are_ you on about? You come to our home and start brandishing a bow and threatening good people like it's something you just _do_. Didn't they teach you manners where you were grown? I would've talked with if you just _asked_ nicely. This nonsense with the arrows, it's really not necessary."

It makes her falter, just for a moment, but she holds firm. "Another word, orc –!"

"And _another thing_ ," the orc says and folds his arms stubbornly. "I'm not an _orc_."

"Then what are you?" Tauriel demands, cold creeping into her belly.

"Mungo!" a voice calls, this one lighter and softer than the gravel tones of the orcs. "Mungo, where are you?!"

"I'm here, Lordy!" Mungo calls over his shoulder. "Come meet our guest, he's _very_ rude."

Tauriel falters between sinking an arrow in Mungo's throat and running away – and staying to see. This was what she wanted to find out – who the Lord of Dol Guldur was now – and yet staying might prove her doom.

She ends up compromising, slowly backing away into the shadows, arrow kept aimed at Mungo, as the other orcs and their lord finally appear in the sunlit field behind Mungo.

Only, there is no Lord there, no terrible figure in dark armour, now sight of thorny helmet or crown in sight. Instead there is a small figure in travel worn clothing far too big for him, hands stained with dirt and hair grown over long. Bare footed and by all appearance defenceless, a halfling stands among the group of orcs, three times as tall as he is, seemingly without fear.

"Mungo?" the halfling – the Lord of Dol Guldur – asks and then hurries to the orc's side while Tauriel stares, her mind draining utterly empty in complete, overwhelming _confusion_. "Mungo, what's that on your shoulder – come down here, let me see."

"Just a scrape, Lordy, nothing to be worried about," the orc – who is apparently not an orc – says and then kneels down in the dirt for the halfling to clamber up to his lap to check the nick. "He did it with an arrow."

"He who?" The halfling asks, frowning and then looks where Mungo points, at Tauriel, who still stands there with arrow on the staring, staring. "Tauriel?" the halfling asks.

"What," Tauriel asks, almost helpless in face of _all of this nonsense_. "What is going _on here_?"

There are full nine of the big, terrifying orcs there now, and they surround the halfling. Baggins, she thinks like through a fog, her mind turning sluggishly. It's Bilbo Baggins, the halfling burglar of Kíli's, of Thorin Oakenshield's company. Bilbo Baggins and nine enormous orcs and Dol Guldur, which they are starting to repair, where they've begun to farm.

"Ah," Bilbo Baggins says. "Well, it's bit of a story – one I'd like to start with you putting that away now," he ads and nods at her bow before turning back to Mungo. "And for your information," he says to the not-orc, "that over there is a _her_ , not a him."

"Ooh," Mungo says and all the orcs eye her with open interest.

"Mm-hmm," Baggins nods and then checks the nick Tauriel had left on Mungo's shoulder. "It's a shallow little thing – we'll make a poultice for it and it'll be right as rain," he decides and then hops down from the not-orc's lap, turning to Tauriel.

He gives her bow a meaningful look. It shakes in her hand before, finally, she lowers it, letting the string loosen. "Good," the impossible Lord of Dol Guldur says, satisfied. "Now come, we'll have some tea and talk like civilised people, alright?"

Feeling as if she's been knocked over the head and left stunned, Tauriel trails after Bilbo Baggins and his orcs, wondering when the world had been turned upside down and how no one knew about it.

* * *

 

"… and then these fellows breached the ground and it turns out I had been growing myself some fine specimens indeed," Bilbo Bagging finishes his utterly ridiculous tale while Tauriel stares at him, and his obviously proud not-and-yet-still-orcs. The roughly hewn cup of weak tea has gone cold in her hands and she can't recall having a single sip.

Baggins shrugs his shoulders at her expression. "Anyway, Gandalf stayed with us for a week or so after that," he continues. "But in the end it turned out we need things here we don't have and can't easily make, and it is not as if we can travel," he motions at his not-and-yet-orcs meaningfully. "So he offered to go for us, to get us some supplies so that we can get on with restoring the fort and starting in on some proper planting. He should be back another couple of weeks."

There's a silence as he considers his own, empty cup, and then turns to one of his not-orcs – Bandobras, Tauriel thinks vaguely, that was his name, wasn't it? Bandobras pours him another cup of tea and Baggins smiles in thanks.

"So," he says, looking at her. "What do you think?"

Tauriel can't even open her mouth to _try_ and come up with an answer. She is sitting in old, half collapsed kitchen which they've obviously done their best to make serviceable, and there are what really amount to orcs all around her – and they're sitting around, drinking tea. And the leader of the whole impossible lot is a small little hobbit who she'd always dismissed as utterly inconsequential – and rather unfortunate – member of the dwarven company.

"Orcs… are grown in the ground," she says finally, and her voice comes out feeble in it's sheer disbelief. "That's… that's nonsense."

Baggins shrug. "That's what happened," he says simply and looks on his not-orcs. There's no doubt about how proud he is of them. "I imagine most of them are grown badly – these fellows were pretty badly off before I came along, all starved and dried up. It took some work, but I think I did well enough."

"We have no complaints," one of the not-orcs says with obvious satisfaction

"Now if you could do the same with growing some _food_ …" another, the one called Isengrim, murmurs wistfully.

"In time, in time," Baggins says and sips his tea. "We need some proper seeds and seedlings first you know."

"I know, but fellow can wish," Isengrim says with a sigh.

Tauriel stares at them – the little halfling and the big orc. "So, you intend to stay here?"

Baggins shrug. "Where else could we go? Who'd have us? Best we make our way here, make it our home," he says and looks around the kitchen. It doesn't so much have a window as it has a whole wall missing. "It'll take a lot of work, but I think this place will be serviceable enough."

Tauriel looks around, at the signs of repair, of _living_. "This is the hill of dark sorcery," she says, some small part of her still wishing to _object_. "Build by the Dark Lord himself. This is… this is ridiculous."

The hobbit shrugs again. "Life often is," he says and also drains his cup of tea. "Not everything has to be sensible, I've found – though it would be nice if it was. Still, all you can do is make most of it. And I think we're well on our way to doing that here."

The elf considers that for moment, as Baggins goes to rinse his tea cup in make shift wash basin, setting it aside. The orcs – not-orcs – do the same, draining their cups and rinsing them. As Tauriel watches, they line their cups out on the side table, each cup in it's proper place. It's all very neat.

Somehow that, the act of rinsing an used cup and then setting it neatly side, is the most un-orcish thing she's ever seen.

"What are they?" Tauriel asks and Baggins turns to look at her with a slight frown. "I mean, if they aren't orcs, if that's not what you call them – what are they?" she knows she sounds a little bit desperate – but maybe she is. Because she can't keep on thinking of them as orcs, or even not-orcs, she simply can't.

"Oh, well, that," Baggins looks at his creations and smiles. "I call them Hobgoblins. It's fitting, don't you think?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for considerations of animal abuse.

Tauriel sits back on a set of broken steps and observes.

The… hobgoblins go about their day, and their work, not minding her in the least. Apparently they're used to being stared at – when the Mithrandir had been there, he'd done much the same, just staring at them for long stretches of time. And now that their Lord has approved her and bid her welcome to stay – and she's put her bow away – they don't mind telling her what they're on about either.

"We've got some seeds Lordy found in the forest, some he thinks we might be able to cultivate," one of them, Bungo, tells her as she watches as they dig a small, sheltered vegetable patch into a corner of the fortress itself. "So we're testing out where they might grow."

"And the field outside the fortress?" Tauriel asks, trying her best to stay calm.

"That's for when the wizard comes back – hopefully with potatoes," the hobgoblin says solemnly.

In the mean while, they are also slowly repairing the fortress. The kitchen wall is repaired that very day while Tauriel watches, with Master Baggins in the thick of it as he and his hobgoblins figure out the best way to put the wall together. They none of them have experience in building, it seems, but they take example from the remaining walls and pick out the best brickwork they can find, and before the night comes they have serviceable enough wall put up, with cob for mortar between the bricks.

"It's not elven or dwarven craftsmanship," the Lord of Dol Guldur pronounces once they're done scraping the excess cob off the wall. "But I should think it will do."

Their other efforts to fix broken walls are similarly done, with best effort and little knowledge, but Tauriel can see the improvements the hobgoblins make to the next wall they fix – and the one after that is even better.

Then they break for dinner, and she is happily invited.

"It's just soup," Bilbo Baggins says almost apologetically while stirring the enormous, obviously orc-made pot. It's filled to the brim with thin liquid and as he stirs it she can see variety of wild roots swimming about – and it's not just roots. There is wild asparagus there too, as far as she can see, and judging by the smell lot of other leaves had been crushed in for taste.

It smells almost astonishingly good, after the weeks Tauriel had spend in the forest eating food fresh from the ground.

"It's always soup," Isengrim sighs.

"You know, it's not going to change no matter how you go on about it," another hobgoblin, Adalgrim, says and slaps him in the back of the head. "Settle down and eat your food."

Isengrim grumbles, but as their lord ladles the food out, he eats it as eager as everyone else. Tauriel gets a bowl of her own, an old orc bowl that too, and a spoon which looks like someone very recently carved it off wood.

The soup is thin – but flavourful. The Lord of Dol Guldur is, apparently, an excellent cook on top of being utterly impossible.

"Do you think we can have bread when the wizard comes back?" another hobgoblin, Gerontius Tauriel thinks his name is, asks.

"Bread takes flour," Baggins says thoughtfully, stirring his bowl of soup idly. "And some other things besides. I gave Gandalf just about all the money I had but it wasn't that much, to be honest – and bulk of it will go to tools, I'm afraid. If any is left over, perhaps he will get us some ingredients but…"

The hobgoblins all slump a bit and their lord laughs, patting the nearest one on the arm. "Either way, Gandalf should bring us some grain to plant – in time we'll make our own flour. For now we just have to rough it out for a bit."

Tauriel looks between them and then down at her soup. She still isn't sure what she thinks of this all, or if she thinks of _anything_ at all. It is all still so confusing, so _strange_ , how companionable they all are, how easy with each other. It would take a while to get used to – if she ever would.

"Tauriel?"

She lifts her head with a jolt and meets the eyes of Lord of Dol Guldur over the bowls of thin soup. "Yes?" she asks, sharper than she perhaps means to.

Baggins arches an eyebrow at her and then ignores it. "How do they farm in the Woodland Realm?" he asks. "I've been through those halls twice now, but I haven't so much as seen a garden there. Where do you get your food from?"

She blinks at that – and of course, he'd want to know about food. "There are gardens and orchards further north from the palace," she says. "In the villages."

"Villages?" Baggins asks, his other eyebrow joining its twin in rising.

"Yes, of course," Tauriel says with a slight frown. "Not all our people live in the halls of king Thranduil – more live further north." The lands there were still, so far, safe of the spiders and the encroaching darkness – though with Gundabad re-inhabited by orcs, who knew how long that would last.

"Have you ever been there?"

"Yes, many times," Tauriel says, shaking her head.

Baggins eyes her expectantly for a moment and then sighs. "Could you please tell me what their farms are like?"

The hobgoblins are all staring at her curiously, and Tauriel looks away. It makes all her instincts scream, to be so defenceless among them, kin of orcs, but she pushes it aside, clearing her throat. "Well, I have never truly looked into it," she admits and then describes an elven garden the best she can from the times she'd seen them.

Elven orchards weren't like what the hobgoblins were building in Dol Guldur, that she knows for sure. Elves eat less and live longer, so their gardens and orchards are the work of centuries, grown into shape over decades rather than forced hurriedly into lines by few weeks of hard work. Lot of elven gardens are works of art – a craft of their own right, a painting of greenery.

"Most prefer theirs to look like the wild forest, from what I've seen," Tauriel says thoughtfully. "I have walked from a forest to an orchard and forest again and never noticed the change."

"Mmm I'd love to see that one day," Baggins murmurs almost dreamily, the hobgoblins agreeing in murmurs.

Tauriel looks between them and then lifts her eyebrows slightly. She's never been into gardening or plants in general, not beyond what she can eat while on patrols – she knows the wild roots and leaves and fruits that are safe to eat. But she knows little about how to grow them, or any other plant, beyond the simple concept of putting seeds in soil and adding water.

Even if it hadn't been for the _hobgoblins,_ the sheer wistfulness with which consider the concept of elven gardens still would have been strange.

"Are all hobbits like you?" Tauriel asks curiously. "So very keen on gardening?"

"Oh no," Baggins laugh. "Most are _much worse_."

* * *

 

The rest of the day is spent in similar activities. The hobgoblins wander around the fortress, cleaning it and fixing it where they can, occasionally stopping to marvel some patch of dirt which might make a good place for planting something. Bilbo Baggins wanders among them, sometimes directing them, but often leaving them to their devices until they come to him with a question.

"Is this food?" Isengrim would ask, bringing a leaf to be checked out.

"No, but it does make good pest repellent when seeped into water – where did you find it?" Baggins would say, and they would go check together, every hobgoblin following, and Baggins would teach them about the plant and it's uses. And the hobgoblins would listen, utterly fascinated by the lopsided little thing.

Baggins is no conventional lord, Tauriel decides. He's more a teacher than a leader, but something about that makes him very effective. There is a solid loyalty there that has nothing to with fealty or honour or oaths – and more to do with simple respect and trust. The hobgoblins trust that Baggins will help them and guide them and teach them because _he does_ – and in turn he trusts them to be good and kind and attentive students, and _they_ _are_.

They hang on his every word and he rewards it with knowledge and confidence in their ability to learn.

Though it probably doesn't hurt that he then also feeds them and then regales them with tales of what they might have one day, so as long as they keep working at it. And the thing is – they're not empty promises. He's promising them nothing but _better food_. There's no talk of riches or comforts or wealth and greatness – just tasty food.

He doesn't even realise that riches, comfort, wealth and greatness would probably come too, eventually, if he kept at it at the pace he's going. And Valar would only know what would happen if Baggins figured out how to make more hobgoblins.

"I have been thinking and thinking about it," the Lord of Dol Guldur says. "Considering how they were grown it makes sense to me that they might be seeded much like taters – from seedling stock. But…" he makes a face. "That would also mean that to plant more hobgoblins, one would need to dismember one, and that is rather terrible to consider. Also, if that was how they were planted, surely you'd see something of the original version in them and…"

And the hobgoblins seem less and less like orcs the longer Tauriel looks at them. They are bigger and stronger, their skin a lot darker – and the jagged sharpness of usual orcs and goblins isn't there. Their teeth are blunt, their nails worn done to blunt edges, and they move with casual saunter, not with jagged jerks.

They're _soft_ in some way. Pliable and yet sturdy and mighty.

"I still cannot wrap my mind around the concept that you grew them from the ground," Tauriel admits, watching the hobgoblins go about. "I have never heard anything like it."

"Me neither, I don't think even Gandalf knew," Baggins admits. "I suppose no one's ever looked into how goblins and orcs are born. It makes sense now that there are no women folk among them though."

Tauriel wonders, for one terribly mad moment, whether hobgoblins had sexual organs. Then she closes her eyes and tries her best to purge the thought from her mind.

The hobgoblins aren't the only thing Baggins has tamed with his simple, impossible ways. There are _wargs_ in the fortress too.

The first time Tauriel sees one of them, she almost goes for her bow. It's still a juvenile – but a juvenile warg is already the size of a hobbit, and when it makes a mad dash for the Lord of Dol Guldur, Tauriel's instinct is to put it down before it can kill the hobbit.

But then Baggins stops it with a firm, "No, no jumping," and then, "sit!" which the warg does, wagging it's stumpy tail happily and giving a grin full of teeth at the hobbit. Baggins grins back at it. "Good girl," he says and goes about scratching the beast all over it's head. "There's a very good girl."

Tauriel stares and the Lord of Dol Guldur shrugs. "They're going to grow up to be ten times my weight," he says, a little defensively. "If not more. I can't exactly let them get used to jumping on people – they'll end up crushing me once they're fully grown."

Tauriel opens her mouth and then closes it, a little confused and not entirely sure what Baggins is being defensive _about_. For reprimanding the beast? "I see," she settles on saying, as she puts her bow and arrow away again. "But what do you mean, they? You mean to say there is more than this one?"

"There's six of them," Baggins explains while scratching the warg's ears. "A whole litter – we figure the orcs left them behind because they were too young to travel fast."

Six wargs pups which wander freely about Dol Guldur, nosing at everything curiously and playing with everything that they deem a toy. The residents of the fortress even encourage them, playing fetch with the beasts when ever they take break from their work. Hobgoblin can throw a stick pretty far, it turns out – but a hobbit can throw it _exactly_ where he means to.

And the wargs love it – and they seem to live for their master's every praise and scratch and the occasional belly rub. They act more like dog puppies than the beasts they're supposed to be. They are otherwise different from the wargs Tauriel has seen – and slain – before, too. For one they're cleaner and for two they're nowhere near as ugly. They look more like wolves, rather than the misshapen monstrosities she's more used to seeing.

It unpleasant and strangely surprising realise that orcs might actually mutilate the faces of their wargs intentionally. Of course it seems like something an orc might do, and yet… it's still shocking. Whether they do it to make the beasts more intimidating or easier to control, Tauriel is not sure – but most wargs she's seen have at least some damage done to their eyes and noses.

Without sight, without proper scent… and what are probably regular, terrible beatings, a warg would be easy to force into submission.

Somehow Dol Guldur has now made Tauriel feel sympathy for wargs. She's not sure how she likes it.

* * *

 

Tauriel lingers at Dol Guldur until it gets too late to leave and she is both dismayed and utterly unsurprised by how easily Baggins and his hobgoblins offer her a place to stay the night.

"There's not much in way of bedding, I'm afraid – we're all sleeping on beds of dry grass and leaves with sack cloth thrown over them," Baggins admits. "But it beats hard ground, I think."

Tauriel debates accepting the easy welcome _fiercely_ in the privacy of her mind. On one hand, she's spend a day observing the hobgoblins and not a single one of them has shown so much as a violent _thought_ , never mind putting one into action. But on other hand, they are still of orcish stock, and even after everything she's seen it is impossible to not believe that there must be something evil in them.

Centuries of instincts and knowledge and terrible experiences is hard to shake, even at the face of friendly hobgoblins playing with equally friendly wargs. But then, that very thought is so ludicrous that she's still not entirely sure she hasn't simply lost her mind completely.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Tauriel says at last. Baggins looks so disappointed and dejected that quickly she amends with, "I mean, the bed won't be necessary. Elves do not sleep."

That pulls him to a halt. "You don't sleep?" he asks in astonishment. "Really?"

Tauriel shakes her head. "We do rest, but it is not the same as sleep – it's more of a meditation, and I can do that where ever it is comfortable enough to sit for a while."

"Huh," the hobbit says, eying her. "I never knew that," he admits. "I guess orcs aren't the only race I know nothing about. Fancy that. Well, you're welcome to stay and, uh, meditate, here."

Tauriel nods, still a little torn about it, but for now decided.

There is something happening here – and she thinks what it is now. As the Lord of Dol Guldur bids her a friendly good night and turns to corral his sleepy hobgoblins to their beds, Tauriel looks after him and wonders if _he_ knows, if he realises what he is doing here, the change, the _incredible_ change, he is making.

The world has been settled on it's course for centuries. Dwarves dig, elves fade, humans die and orcs kill and nothing changes. Only here, _here_ there is change.

Here, green things are growing from under the cracked old brickwork of long lost civilisations and new light shines upon the shadows cast into the present by their ancient wars. And Bilbo Baggins doesn't  _care_ that he's walking barefoot on ancient convention, tracking mud and dirt all over it.

He just wants to grow things and grow them _well_.

Tauriel sits back in a warm corner of the kitchen where she has a window on her right for an easy escape and the door in full view. Cross legged, she lets her mind fall empty, lets the experiences of the day seep in and then pass into her memory and into acceptance.

She thinks she might stay here for a while and see what becomes of Dol Guldur, what it's new lord makes of it.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time the Mithrandir comes back to Dol Guldur, Tauriel has seen the fortress change and change and change again. Things move fast at the hill of dark sorcery now, for all that it looks like it doesn't. Broken things get repaired, and new things get planted every day, and the place transforms.

Fixing things, rebuilding them, and planting new things in their shelter, makes for a greater difference than she thinks she's ever realised. Like all elves she's used to change being either slow and near invisible – and usually not for the better. Things built to last slowly break and are ruined, they crumble and falter and come to dust. The encroachment of time is a slow and steady and usually impossible to halt.

She's too young to have seen things being build – the world was already old and fading when she was born, and all Tauriel has ever known was the shadow of ancient design. It exists in Dol Guldur where you stand under the arches of the old Silvan city, it exists in the Woodland Realm which is older yet. Erebor and Dale were already old when she was born as well, and though she's seen the building of Laketown, it too was build on ruins.

The times of great building and great innovation have always been things of history to her, distant and long ago and impossible to see again. Nothing new has ever emerged in her time – only the attempts to renew the old, usually with less than great results.

Dol Guldur is like that too – something ancient that's being made new. But there is still something about it that strikes a chord with her. Because the hobgoblins aren't attempting to simply rebuild what's there. They don't care about the history of Dol Guldur, they don't care about the Dark Lord's occupation, or the great city of Silvan elves that once stood there, the hill's history means nothing to them.

"It's all a bit too grand, really, all these towers," Bandobras says, peering up at the ancient stone towers, reaching for the overcast sky above them. "Lordy says hobbits build under dirt if they can manage, their greatest houses are smials, holes dug into hills. That way they can have garden right on top of their houses, see? Now that seems sensible to me."

"This place is a fortress," Tauriel says, also looking up. The hobgoblins haven't yet started repairing the old towers of the Silvan elves – they've mostly concentrated onto those one and two storey houses they are actually using in the fortress. "The idea was to fit as many people as you may in small space, and surround it in walls to keep if safe from invasion and to stand a siege."

"War," Bandobras huffs and folds his meaty arms. "There ain't no war here."

Tauriel frowns a little at that and turns to the hobgoblin. "War might come," she says solemnly. "This place is in terribly advantageous position, for anyone aiming to strike at the kingdoms of east. That's why Dark Lord took it – it was good place to solidate power for attacks against the Woodland realm, and against Erebor, and Dale, and the Iron Hills."

She looks at the houses they've rebuild, the walls they've repaired, the supports they'd put in place to keep them from collapsing again. "You are making this place liveable and you might make it defensible again. You're making fields and planting gardens and are aiming to grow your own food here. That might make this place attractive again for hostile take over."

"Hrmh," Bandobras answers and also considers the walls, the buildings. "I guess it ain't like Shire," he says a bit sadly. "Shire's surrounded by Men, and so far from all the great places that no one much cares for it, except to steal food maybe. Or that's what Lordy tells us anyway."

Tauriel thinks of the location of Shire. Once it had been in more advantageous position – but the days of the northern kingdoms is long gone, the Grey Havens are all but empty and the Blue Mountains from what she's heard are poor. "There isn't strategic value to Shire these days, no," she admits.

"So I figured," Bandobras says and then sighs. "Well I guess there's nothing to it. Can you tell me about war, Tauriel?"

"Why?" she asks, and even after days spend in the company of the kindly hobgoblins, a spark of suspicion rises.

"So that we can keep it from coming to here, of course," the hobgoblin says and stands up. He looks both resigned and resolute. "Dol Guldur isn't much of a place, but it's our home. It's the only home we got, even Lordy doesn't think we could settle anywhere else safely. So, if this place might be usable in war or whatever, we ought to know how to defend it from it, don't we?"

Tauriel blinks at him, at the simple, straightforward logic of it, and his obvious distaste. That still strikes her as _so very strange_ , how un-warlike the hobgoblins are. Like their lord they find fighting to be so much terrible nonsense. But, also like their lord, they are apparently willing to stomach it if they absolutely have to.

"Bandobras," she says slowly. "Do you want to learn how to fight?"

He sighs. "I really don't," he says. "It sounds like terrible business, swords and knifes and whatnot. But I suppose I might as well."

* * *

 

At some point it dawns on Tauriel that she is living at Dol Guldur. As the days pass and she watches the inhabitants of the fortress, she realises that she is past the point of mere curiosity and observation – that she has stopped making travel plans for the Woodland Realm, that the idea of warning Thranduil is no longer in the forefront of her mind.

She has her own room in the fortress now, recently rebuild and refurbished with the best they could find around the ruins. She has a nice table and chair and bookshelf and even a bed though she doesn't use it. She's had two baths in the fortress, a full on baths where she carried the water herself from the well and heated it up and filled a large tub with it, all just because… well because she could – and because the hobgoblins did it too. She's even put aside her travel cloak, and her bow stays in her room more than not.

Tauriel is no longer merely staying a while, she is living in the place – and though it's not quite home, it is something that she isn't sure Woodland Realm ever was. Somewhere along the way, she begun to _believe_ in the Lord of Dol Guldur and his hobgoblins.

She could backtrack still, she knows. She could back away from this, could leave, return to the north and re-establish herself as the Elf of the Woodland Realm, rather than whatever she is here. She could still turn her back to all of this, and return to what she was and what she had before. Only… only she doesn't want to.

In Thranduil's halls they are eternally under the forest canopy and in it's shadow. Everything is going grey there, the colours faded to eternal hues of autumn. And she doesn't want to go back to it now, after having watched green things beginning to sprout in Dol Guldur.

"Elves are in their autumn years," Tauriel shares with the Lord of Dol Guldur, not sure why but feeling like she must voice the thought to someone, and Legolas who once shared it with her is gone. "Their greatness is thousands of years in the past, and they all fade. Time wears on them, and more and more leave for the Grey Havens and for Valinor every year."

Bilbo Baggins eyes her sympathetically. "It did feel like time had a terrible weight in the Woodland Realm," he says. "Not so much in Rivendell, though, now that I think about it."

"Rivendell is kept by magic," Tauriel says. "Rivendell and Lothlórien are protected from the wear of ages by their rulers – suspended on the knife edge of false vitality. They are the only ones, however – everywhere else, magic ages and fades and elves with it. They grow weary."

"I suppose people so old would eventually tire out," Bilbo muses. "I can't ever wrap my mind around the age of elven folk – hobbits only live a hundred years if so much. The idea of living for centuries, for thousands of years, it is too big a thought to fit in the head of a hobbit, I'm afraid. No offence meant."

"None taken – and I understand," Tauriel smiles faintly. "I was born into these autumn years of my people. I am one of the youngest in the Woodland Realm. So sometimes I cannot wrap my head around it either. I've watched the fading of my people all my life – but…"

She trails off, not quite sure how to word the concept that has been growing in her mind, which beats with every breath she takes, growing stronger. Bilbo Baggins watches her patiently and then turns his attention to the pipe he is fiddling with – the stem had cracked and he's been hoping to repair it.

Repair it, like they are repairing the fortress.

Tauriel leans her head back and looks up and to the sky. Woodland Realm grows old. They are always in eternal, dim glow of overcast, and the people are bleached of colour and emotion. Thranduil grows suspicious and twisted in his old age, and the Woodland Realm does the same with him, and everything is growing crooked with age.

Dol Guldur is old and crooked too, but it's also new. Light shines on the fortress hard and strong and without hindrance, almost oppressive with how powerful it seems – and it's all the better for it. It highlights the flaws and faults along the buildings, but it also feeds the plants – and the people. In Dol Guldur… there is spring.

"I am not fading," Tauriel admits finally, quietly, like it's a secret.

Her people are old and her heart yet hollow, longing for the love she could've had in Kíli and lost. And maybe that's why she'd loved him so fast and so desperate – because like her he'd been young, like her he'd been passionate. He had made her feel alive, and young and strong. But he is gone and though she thought the loss would strangle her, it hadn't. It had left scars, but it wouldn't claim her.

She isn't fading.

The next day, Tauriel grabs a shovel and joins the hobgoblins in upturning yet another patch of dirt for planting of new life, and feels stronger for it.

* * *

 

When the Mithrandir comes, it is with quite the entourage. He comes sitting on a cart pulled by cows, with three goats trailing after it on a leash. On the cart there are barrels and boxes and cages full of chickens. He looks quite pleased with himself when the hobgoblins and the Lord of Dol Guldur go to greet him at the end of the causeway, laughing with obvious pleasure at their open astonishment.

"How on earth did you manage this?" Bilbo Baggins demands. "There wasn't anywhere near enough money for this!"

"I might have pitched in myself and perhaps put myself in a small debt," the Istari says with a slight wink as he swings down. "I will reimburse myself and those I now owe money to from the troll cave the next time I head for the west, but that is concern for later time." He turns to Tauriel and his bushy eyebrows lift. "Well now, this is a surprise. Tauriel, Captain of the Guard of the Woodland Realm"

"Mithrandir," Tauriel says, and bows her head. "I am not the Captain of the Guard anymore, I'm afraid."

"Hrm, no I don't suppose you would be," the wizard says and then glances at the Lord of Dol Guldur.

"She's welcome to stay here as long as she'd like, forever if she wants," Bilbo Baggins says, waving a dismissive hand. His attention is fully on the cart, and he is already clambering up it's side. "Oh good lord Gandalf, you got me _goose eggs_."

"I did indeed, though the goose themselves were rather stretching for my funds after I got the cows and the goats," the Mithrandir admits. "I also got little something for you boys," he adds and then reaches past Bilbo to tug open a sack, half hidden behind a barrel.

Tauriel peers in and then smiles, amused.

"Is that –?!" Isengrim breathes in delighted shock.

"Wheat flour," Gandalf says with obvious smugness. "I also managed to secure some fine yeast."

The Lord of Dol Guldur grins. "I suppose we need to set up a proper oven, then," he says, and looks at the hobgoblins. "Can't make bread without a oven, now, can we?"

"Can we do that today?" Bungo asks, leaning in. "Lordy please can we do that now?"

"First we need to get all this inside – and make pens for our new animals," Bilbo Baggins says, smiling, and then prods and pokes at the things Gandalf had brought them. "Oh this feels like Yule! Now what else is here…"

"Seeds and more seeds, and some food too," Gandalf says, folding his arms and watching with pride as the Lord of Dol Guldur examines the cart. "Tools for farming and blacksmithing and I even got you a loom, though sadly none in the village had any sheep to sell. Various little things, needles and such… hrm what else was there… the cart itself of course…"

Sadly there is no bread that day – the rest of the day is spend in getting the animals settled in, getting the wargs used to them and making sure there'd be no _accidents_ with the chicken. Then they go over the things the wizard had brought, which takes most of the rest of the light hours. The wizard, it turns out, had brought them quite a bit.

"Tomorrow we'll be planting some potatoes," the Lord of Dol Guldur says happily. "They've already sprouted!"

There is still something of a feast that night, even if it is lacking bread, as Bilbo takes the salted meats and cheeses and other things Gandalf had brought and whips up a fuller meal than they've any of them had in days – or in the case of the hobgoblins, ever.

It is a feast greater than any banquet Tauriel has partaken in the Woodland Realm. Every simple piece of food is it's own delight, and the milk one of the cows had been good enough to produce is pronounced the greatest drink on earth by the hobgoblins. Not to mention the cheese, oh, the _cheese_!

Tauriel nibbles on her share of it slowly, savouring it in a way she's never savoured cheese before. She doesn't partake in the roasted meat, though Bilbo did crack and fry an egg for her, which is it's own luxury. She's not sure she's ever found such pleasure in simple food, but she has to admit, she is in no way poorer for having been infected by the ways of the hobgoblins there.

"Now I am curious about you being here, Tauriel," Gandalf says, watching the joyous feasting from the side while smoking a pipe. "I feared that should elves come here, they might attack first and not ask questions at all. You obviously didn't, which is honestly quite surprising for warrior such as yourself."

"She did take me as a hostage on arrow point!" Mungo pipes in, grinning toothily at her.

"Just for a moment. You were a delightful hostage, Mungo," Tauriel says with a faint smile, and he toasts her with his cup of milk. Shaking her head, she turns to the Mithrandir. "The first I saw these fine hobgoblins, they were turning a field and lamenting over food. It was… rather bewildering, so I erred on side of observation."

"So you came here alone?" the wizard asks, looking her over. Tauriel has dirt under her fingernails now, and her trouser legs and boots are all stained. "That is interesting."

Tauriel looks at the piece of cheese in her hand. "After the battle of Erebor, I couldn't settle in the halls of the Woodland Realm. I lost my position there and Thranduil's trust in me was lost, and I couldn't… I couldn't settle. So I took to the forest, to patrol the boarders of the realm."

"I take it you didn't stay there."

"For years I argued with Thranduil that we should clear the infestation of darkness here," Tauriel admits. "I suppose I came here to do it myself, now that nothing stopped me. Only, I found no darkness here."

Gandalf eyes her consideringly for a moment and then he smiles and nods. "No," he agrees. "There is no darkness here, not anymore."

Tauriel nods and takes another slow bite of her cheese, closing her eyes for a moment and enjoying the thick, salty taste. "Did you know that orcs are grown in the _ground_?" she then asks, and the incredulity still seeps into her voice.

Gandalf laughs. "No, no I did not," he admits. "But it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that a hobbit grows them better than anyone."

No, Tauriel muses. It doesn't surprise her either, not anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here there be spiders

Tauriel still patrols, only now she does it for Dol Guldur, rather than against it. The reputation of the fortress protects it, people do not come near it, but there are still many fell beasts in the Greenwood, that might seek shelter in the ruins. So, she patrols, to protect the home she is making among the hobgoblins and their little lord.

Mostly it is quiet around the fortress. There are hints of beasts – warg tracks aren't uncommon and once or twice she's seen footprints of orc boots, but they all lead away from the fortress, as if they'd known it wasn't a welcoming place for them. Dol Guldur has a new aura now, and it doesn't promote the dark sickness of before – so, beasts avoid it, more than not.

So there isn't much to patrol the fortress from. As it is, the great ruins are surrounded by cliffs on almost all sides, connected to the forest only by causeways, easy to defend in a pinch. That was what had always made the hill of Amon Lanc and later Dol Guldur so attractive for an occupation. Take out the causeways, and the hill was impossible to invade.

Tauriel walks the forest anyway, partially out of habit and partially to just… clear her head for a while. It still strikes her at odd times, how strange this new life she's leading is, and whether madness was likely explanation after all. Sometimes, she can't help but doubt her loyalty. Walking the forest helps her feel like an _elf_.

The forest around Dol Guldur is both worse and better off than the rest of Greenwood. The poison is deep rooted here, the trees are twisted and dead more than they're not, and the sheer _age_ of the evil that had occupied Dol Guldur is almost an tangible sensation here. And yet… there is new life.

Now that they had proper axes and saws, Tauriel knows the hobgoblins would be taking the old trees down. It's a concept always a little uncomfortable for a wood elf, but here, here she cannot wait for it. So many of these trees are in such a terrible state, if they're alive at all – if they're not in terrible pain, then they are horribly corrupted. Death of such old trees should be a tragedy – but it is not. Their _lives_ are tragedies.

And it is not as if it would be destruction for the sake of destruction – or even production. Here, the death of trees would only promote new growth – because it is not as if the Lord of Dol Guldur _wouldn't_ plant new trees. No, he's already planning where to plant them.

And so, with the poisoned trees gone and healthy ones planted in their place, the earth would heal.

Breathing in deep, Tauriel lets the thought seep in. There is a philosophy there that is as old as the earth and yet completely new to her. She thinks she likes it better than the strong minded, relentless preservation of old.

Then, a scent catches her nose and her eyes snap open.

It's a thick, cloying scent of rotting flesh, one she knows very well. It is the smell of a carcass hung up and smothered in web, filled with poisons to soften it, to putrefy it.

Spiders.

Quick, she takes her bow in hand and strings an arrow, and then, silent as only elf – and perhaps a hobbit –can be, she stalks forward, towards the scent.

She finds the nest in no time at all – following the trails of webs that have appeared to that side of the forest to their centre. There, a clearing is has already been covered in webbing, layers and layers of them hung between the trees. The carcass she smells is what looks like a warg – the awkwardly misshapen shape of the webbed up body is too thick and too short to be a man or an elf, and not slender enough to be an deer.

Half a dozen spiders maybe – but no egg sacks as far as she can see, not yet anyway.

Tauriel's first instinct is to find the beasts and slay them before they can try and lay any eggs and multiply their numbers, as she has done for decades. Letting this nest set roots here is beyond question – not here, not this close to Dol Guldur, to _home_.

Better destroy it now and be done with it.

She hears the skitter of spider in the distance, and quickly aims her arrow there, waiting.

Then, a thought comes to her.

Thought of what amounts to orcs, turned kindly and peaceful. Thought of young, still clumsy wargs, trained into obedience with kindness and treats. She doubts very much the Lord of Dol Guldur could ever manage such a miracle with the spawn of Ungoliant. And yet…

And yet, she couldn't have imagined it possible with orcs or wargs at all!

Indecisive, Tauriel hesitates just for a moment. Then she puts her arrow away and slings her bow over her shoulder and backs away.

She can be at the fortress in few hours, and back here in few more to clear the nest, if it comes to it.

* * *

 

The Lord of Dol Guldur and his hobgoblins are done planting for the moment and are apparently taking a break. They all of them have pipes now, and their own tobacco, and they're all smoking happily as they puzzle over something when Tauriel arrives.

"Tauriel, there you are," Bilbo Baggins says. "Here, come and tell us where we got this wrong."

She peers over him to see the mess of wood and string they are trying to make. "Is that the loom?"

"It is what is supposed to be a loom, but I'm afraid we none of us know how to work one," the Lord of Dol Guldur admits.

"I'm still saying we didn't put the pedal on right," Adalgrim says. "Of course it doesn't work when the pedal isn't even connected."

"I don't suppose you might've ever seen an elven loom?" Bilbo Baggins asks hopelessly. "We had a loom in Bagend when I was young, but I'm afraid I never looked into the mechanisms – and I gave it away when my mother died. I've quite forgotten everything about the old thing, I'm afraid."

"You think I know anything about weaving?" Tauriel asks, amused.

"I was hoping you might've at least seen a loom more recently than I have," the hobbit sighs and scratches at his scalp, sending his curls swaying. "And Gandalf is no help, even though her bought this thing."

Tauriel considers the contraption and then shakes her head. "Elven looms have no mechanisms," she admits. "I don't even know what you would do with pedals on a loom."

The Lord of Dol Guldur sighs. "Well I suppose we'll have plenty of time to figure it out. It is not as if we have any yarn to actually try on it. Still, it would be nice to be able to make our own fabrics and own clothes," he says and eyes his hobgoblins sadly. Their clothes are all old orc make, and no amount of washing or mending will make them nice.

Tauriel eyes him thoughtfully, wondering if the Lord of Dol Guldur even realises he himself is in terrible need of new clothes too. His are of Mannish make, but they're in ill repair as well, not to mention far too big for him.

Bilbo Baggins shakes his head and then looks up at her. "You're back early," he says. "Did you get hungry?"

Tauriel smiles a bit at that – what a hobbit thing to think, when every other species on earth would first assume trouble. "No, I ran into some trouble," she says. "There is a nest of spiders, two hours run north from the fortress. No more than half a dozen and I didn't see any egg sacks – they're only establishing their nest. But it is still closer than I'd like."

"Spiders," the hobbit murmurs and frowns, while the hobgoblins look up.

"Those big spiders, the ones you named your sword for?" Bandobras asks interestedly, taking his pipe off his mouth.

"I don't know how big they'd be from your perspective," the Lord of Dol Guldur admits with wry sort of amusement. "For me they were absolutely gigantic. And _terrifying_."

"I can easily clear the nest out while there is only so many of them." Tauriel assures him. "But I thought it best to ask you first."

"Hmm," he answers and considers it. "Well, I wouldn't like them this close to home either, not while we have so many animals here, and all of them are so valuable. Yes, I think clearing out the nest might be the safest way to go about."

Tauriel nods, a little relieved. At least _this_ still makes sense in the world, then. Even here, spiders are pests and trouble.

"Can I go with her?" Bandobras asks, standing up from where he'd been kneeling next to the loom, brushing dirt off his trousers as he does. "I want to see what they are like, how big they really are."

"That's up to Tauriel," Bilbo Baggins says and looks up at her. "Do you mind taking him with you?"

Tauriel hesitates. The hobgoblins aren't the quietest of people, hobbit stealth being one of the few things they hadn't inherited from their lord. But then again, when hunting for spiders stealth wasn't that terribly important – they tended to be drawn to noise, rather than the opposite.

"Not at all," she says finally. "But you're going to need to get some weapons, Bandobras, just in case."

"Right, right, of course," he says, both brightening up and turning more serious, all at once. He quickly empties his pipe out to a near by fire basing and then puts it away. "I'll be right back then."

The Lord of Dol Guldur looks after him and then up at Tauriel. "He's terribly excitable. Look after him for me, will you?"

"Of course," Tauriel promises with a nod, though she never would have done otherwise. Bandobras is as good as her student, having been learning combat and history of warfare from her, and she is rather fond of him.

Shaking her head, she looks at the loom. "I think Adalgrim is right," she then says. "The pedal isn't connected properly."

Bilbo Baggins sighs. "Yes, I suppose it isn't," he says and pulls his sleeves up. "Alright, boys, let's take it apart and try again."

* * *

 

Bandobras makes for amiable, if not particularly quiet, company in the forest. It is the furthest she thinks any of the hobgoblins has gone away from the fortress, so she tries to have some patience about how easily he gets distracted by everything he sees.

"Is it always so dark and clammy in here?" he asks with some distaste, making a face as he steps on a puddle of mud. He's still barefoot, as the hobgoblins and their lord always are.

"More or less," Tauriel agrees. "Dol Guldur is the sunniest place around because there is no canopy over it. Here, it covers everything."

"Don't know how I like it," Bandobras admits. "It's pretty gloomy here."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Tauriel agrees, thinking of the decades and centuries she'd lived in this shade, and considered it not only normal but perfectly natural.

They make it to the spider nest later in that afternoon, where they sneak, as quiet as Bandobras can manage, closer to the webs. As they do, Tauriel explains to him how spiders hunt, and how they trap – that touching the webs alerts them, because they can feel the way the webs shake.

"Now, we need to keep an eye about," Tauriel says. "They will try and attack from above or behind us if they can manage it, so keep your guard up."

"Yes, ma'am. But what is that?" Bandobras asks quietly, motioning at the wrapped up carcass. "It stinks."

"A dead warg," Tauriel explains. "They hang up their prey like that, stick them full of poisons to soften the meat – that one is dead, though most of their prey they keep alive for as long as they can."

Bandobras makes a face, his nose scrunching up with distaste. "Ugh," he says, succinctly.

Then they're spotted by the spiders themselves.

The fight itself is in no way remarkable to Tauriel – once you've fought one nest of spiders, the rest rather fall into similar patterns. They try to trap, and if that fails they try to sneak attack. And if sneak attack doesn't work, they will either run away, or attack head on in defence of their nest.

Here, it goes from attempted sneak attack, descending on them from above – which Tauriel is carefully watching for – to a full frontal assault in quick procession. Tauriel answers accordingly, sinking an arrow into the nearest spider before pulling her sword and sinking it into the second, a knife into the third, carefully avoiding the fangs as she does.

Bandobras surprises her, though.

He pulls out his rough, orc machete and then strips one of the spiders half of it's legs in one powerful swing before knocking another spider aside with the same sword – killing neither beast. The last one he grabs straight from the air as it goes to launch at Tauriel.

Then they're left staring at the spider Bandobras is just… holding by the back, one strong hand wrapped securely around it's carapace. The spider flails it's legs and skitters and snarls furiously but it can't do anything, can't reach behind to try and release Bandobras' grip, can't even try and attack him.

"Huh," Bandobras says, peering at the spider interestedly. "It's lighter than I thought."

"I… wouldn't know," Tauriel admits slowly, even as she takes out throwing knife and swinging it at the spider Bandobras had knocked aside, sinking the blade handle deep in the spider's head.

Bandobras turns the spider in his hand, examining the legs which are now curling in to protect the spider's belly, and the gnashing jaws, gleaming with venom.

"Release us, release us, vile creature, release uss!" the spider snarls at them, it's hind quarters twitching from side to side. It does nothing to loosed Bandobras' grip. "Release uss!" the spider snarls louder, and bit of web bursts out, as if from sheer frustration.

Bandobras stares at the web curiously and then at the spider as it jerks helplessly in his grip. " _Huh_ ," the hobgoblin says again in tones of realisation and then looks up at the webs.

"Is… there something wrong?" Tauriel asks curiously, feeling a little worried now. Bandobras has a calculating look on his broad face, and last time he had had that look, he'd tackled her on the practice field hard enough to bruise. He'd apologised profusely after, of course, but Tauriel now knows the look that spells _trouble_.

"I'm thinking," Bandobras hums thoughtfully and narrows his eyes, looking at the spider in his hand and then at the webs. "And I think I have an idea."

* * *

 

Well, Tauriel thinks faintly. It's high time something shocked the Lord of Dol Guldur in turn.

Bilbo Baggins stares at the spoils of the battle Bandobras and Tauriel had brought with them, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher on his forehead. The spoils include one whole live spider, furiously snarling where it lays on it's side with it's legs bound up in spider web… and four branches with spider webs bundled up around them in thick wads.

"I…" the Lord of Dol Guldur says, looking at the spider, then at the bundled of spider web, then at the spider again. Then he looks up at Bandobras. "I am honestly not sure what's going on here. Bandobras?"

"Well," Bandobras says, folding his meaty arms. "We were talking about looms and spindles and yarn and string and such before, about how we need sheep for wool. But we wont get sheep anytime soon, because we haven't got any money and nowhere near by has any to sell anyway because the war drained every one dry. So I was thinking…"

He takes one of the branches covered in spider webs and tugs at the webs. "This is kind of like string, isn't it? You said that spindle at least would be easy to make, so, we could make yarn out of this, for the loom?"

Tauriel stares at him in something like horror and Bilbo Baggins does the same. Then the hobbit's face crunched up in thought and he says, " _Huh_ ," in the exact same tones Bandobras had used before, and examines the webs.

Tauriel looks between them in hopeless disbelief and then sighs and rubs a hand over her face, digging her middle finger into the dib between her eyebrows, where she can already feel the ache.

Valar help her, they'd found use for _spiders_.

"So, do you think we can make wool out of it?" Bandobras asks eagerly while the other hobgoblins lean in curiously, prodding at the web bundles and peering at the furious, bound up spider – now fated for domestication, the poor beast.

"No, no, not wool, Bandobras," the Lord of Dol Guldur says finally, and pulls a thin strand loose, so thin it's only visible because the light makes it gleam. "This, my boy, will make _silk_."


	6. Chapter 6

Stretching, Tauriel stands up from her bed, the night's meditation done. Her mind peaceful and calm, she runs her hands through her hair and then sits down to brush it with the comb Gerontius had made for her from wood, carding the wide teeth through her long hair until all the tangles were smoothed out – not that there were many to begin with.

After braiding her hair, she considers her clothes for a moment before sighing. She, like everyone else in Dol Guldur, has only the one set so far – and though hers is the best kept in the entire fortress, it is starting to get a little rank. She would have to wash it in the upcoming days. For now, though, she smoothes out the wrinkles and scratches at a patch of dirt before pulling her trousers, tunic and finally her over coat back on. Her armour she leaves in her room for now.

Tauriel is, as she usually is, the first one up and about. Even the Lord of Dol Guldur, who rises earlier than the hobgoblins, is still fast asleep as Tauriel pops into the kitchen to add some wood into the oven, to make sure there'd be enough to heat some water and make some food later on. She considers for a moment setting the kettle on… but decides against it.

Instead, she sets out to walk the near perimeter of the fortress, as she does, every morning.

It's quiet, with none of the others up yet. The only sounds are the wind, the distant rush of waves in the cliffs beneath the hill, and distant birds. Tauriel raises a set of steps that don't strictly speaking lead anywhere, and lifts her face to the sun that has only barely begun peaking past the forest canopy.

The birds are new – before, the forest was deadly silent around them. Now, there is grain and vegetables and berry bushes and other things growing in the fortress and around it, and much to their Lord's dismay and Tauriel's delight, it was inviting wildlife.

There had been birds singing in the Woodland Realm, of course, but very few in the rest of the Greenwood, or if there were, they were silent. Here, they dare to sing – here, they are safe.

Tauriel breathes in the air, so much cleaner than it was in the forest, and for a moment just enjoys the quiet, the distant bird song, the promising stillness of the morning and all the promise it holds.

Then she sets out to check the pens.

Because the animals are so desperately valuable, they are all kept inside the fortress. The cows have a pen in what used to be a market place in ancient times, and the goats have a corner where they tend to climb the rubble and occasionally escape right over it. The chickens have a hut, build from stone and loose brick, which their Lord checks every morning for eggs.

The rooster is already wide awake and considering the light over the tree tops, as if wondering if it was morning enough yet to begin crowing. Tauriel greets him with a fistful of grain and he flaps his wings in mocking challenge before they part ways, Tauriel to head to check the causeways, and he to find a perch to wake the rest of the fortress from.

As quietly she may with the hinges creaking, she opens the gates. Everything is as it should be in the causeways – they're as solid and as sturdy as ever, and without any signs of invasion. Tauriel walks all of them up and down to check for tracks, before going further, to check the fields.

The hobgoblins and their lord have already set up some scare crows, made of hay and sack cloth, set up on wooden poles. It's not quite enough to keep the crows away, and Tauriel wonders if she should tell them about the ways elven farmers scare off wild life, with water fountains set with rocking wood poles that clap against a rock every now and then. She doesn't know how effective they were, but most elven gardens had them.

She'd tell them about the fountains later. For now, it seems like the scarecrows are doing the trick well enough.

The potatoes are already sprouting, it looks like. Tauriel had a small hand in planting them – though it had been all on their lord's direction, of course. Still, she allows herself a quiet sense of pride, at the sight of the little green sprouts. Soon, they'd be eating food they had grown themselves.

That would be something.

In the fortress, the rooster is crowing now. The others would be getting up soon.

Quietly Tauriel turns to head back into the ruin city – to put the kettle on.

* * *

 

The hobgoblins have now more or less settled into tasks they particularly enjoy.

Mungo and Ferdinbrand enjoy the gardening and farming the most, so that is what they mostly do, often heading out together to weed the fields or make new ones, digging out more and more gardens and vegetable patches inside the city, planting more and more seeds as they go. In their wake, the greenery spills into the ruins with ever growing pace, and they're all better for it.

Reginard and Bungo on other hand prefer the building and repairing, working out the kinks of turning half crumbled buildings into viable housing. They're well on the way of mastering the basic of Dol Guldur's architecture, mixing elven and orcish design without care with distinctively hobgoblin ideologies, and coming up with rather serviceable, practical whole. Already, the fortress is starting to look like something different, something new, under their efforts.

Gerontius on other hand is growing particularly good with a knife and bit of wood, so he is mostly found carving little bit of this and that. Tauriel's comb is so far his best work, but with each new piece he is getting more and more elaborate – recently he made a wooden tea cup for his lord, with intricate little designs on the side.

Adalgrim, like Gerontius, likes wood work, but he likes the mechanisms of it more than the act of merely carving. Taking inspiration from the loom – which they got working mostly thanks to him – he's already well on his way designating a spinners weasel, taking guidance from his lord's half remembered descriptions of his mother's old wheel.

Bandobras, after his innovation with spider webs, had taken to weaving with great interest. So far his attempts at it have been mostly experimental as he tries to make viable yarn from the webs, but he is growing ever clever with his big fingers, and with Adalgrim's increasingly functional spindles he is getting better. Soon, Tauriel knows, he'd be making splendid pieces, especially if they manage to master the art of making yarn from spider silk.

The spider they'd captured is still not exactly warmed up to the idea, snarling and hissing even when offered food, but Rorimac had taken up the task of trying to persuade the beast to their side. He's fond of animal husbandry, and as it is he takes care of their animals more often than not, milking the cows and feeding them and the goats and tending to the chickens. So far the spider – which he is calling Skitters – is being somewhat stubborn, but Lord of Dol Guldur seems to have faith in Rorimac, so Tauriel figures it's a loosing battle for the beast.

Isengrim is on other hand becoming something of a cook, sticking to his lord's side even more tightly than the other hobgoblins when ever food is being made. Tauriel had no doubt that once they have more food to make, he'll be getting his hand in – but for now everything edible is so precious in the fortress that Lord of Dol Guldur guards the access to their pantry with something of a jealous eye.

They are all more or less settling into their lives, into jobs, into skills and trades, and sometimes Tauriel wonders about how terribly clever the hobgoblins can be, how quick they are to learn. If all orc kind are like that, it sets something of a terrifying precedence – and yet, she doubts an orc would ever have much of a call to be clever. All they do is destroy and kill and fight – nor much call for building and planting in their dark society.

Before, it had been something of a grim relief. Now, here, in the heart of greenery that Dol Guldur is so gently harbouring, it seems like terrible, sad waste. But perhaps that was by the dark lord's design – which really only makes the fortress and what it is building and growing all the more terrible.

So, Tauriel becomes the guardswoman of Dol Guldur and she does it gladly. The fortress is precious to her now, and she knows, she'd give her life to defend it if it came down to it.

* * *

 

Gandalf comes and goes from Dol Guldur, sometimes staying a day, sometimes a week or more, but not quite settling in. Not that anyone expects him to. Istari being Istari, he will wander as he will, but when ever he is there, he is his own form of comfort to have. Especially so since he is obviously as fond of the hobgoblins and their little lord as is Tauriel.

When he comes, he brings them news and gifts. It's never something that might belittle their efforts at the hill, Tauriel notes quietly – he doesn't bring them cartloads of food, or boxes full of new clothing. What food he brings is for treat, not for survival, and if he brings clothing at all, it is only pieces of fabric as example of weaving.

Tauriel can't even figure out how she likes it. Gandalf could supply the fortress with all the food it needed, she has no doubt, he could bring them all new clothes. But at the same time – would those things be as valuable, as the promise of food they grew themselves, clothing they sew themselves. As it is, they can manage at the fortress for now, and yet… It seems like kindness and unkindness at the same time.

Lord of Dol Guldur never seems to mind it – or expect more. If anything, he seems somewhat uncomfortable accepting anything Gandalf brings, be it blacksmithing tools or new hoes, or bag of sugar or bowl of salt. It takes explanation of hobbit culture for Tauriel to figure out why.

In hobbit society, host is the one who gives gifts – not the guest. And Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit torn with sense of propriety since he has so little to give to his lone, wandering guest.

One day, when he'd have enough to spare again, Tauriel suspects the Lord of Dol Guldur will attempt to smother the Mithrandir in gifts. It would be amusing to witness, if nothing else.

* * *

 

Lord of Dol Guldur bakes that day. They've had bread before, of course – and it never stops being a special sort of pleasure, to have freshly baked bread with a bit of butter. But that day, Bilbo Baggins bakes something else with the last of their flour.

Tauriel observes it with similar curiosity with which the hobgoblins lean in, carefully watching their lord's every move as he mixes the flour and the some of their sugar with butter and bit of water, and mixes it all into frothy, creamy dough. He spreads it out onto one of their few pans, before taking some berries Tauriel had gathered from the forest yesterday and setting them over the dough, pouring sugar and butter mixed into liquid over it. He covers it with another thin layer of dough and then sets it in oven, in apparent satisfaction.

The smell is utterly, mouth wateringly delicious as it bakes on slow, gentle heat.

There is only enough of the pie for one small slice for everyone, but they all savour it with slow, careful bites, all of the knowing it to be a desperately rare treat they won't get to enjoy again in a while. Tauriel stretches her slice out for as long as she can, taking sips of tea in between small bites and wondering if any treat in the Woodland Realm ever tasted this good. Elves did not have much use for butter, after all.

One day she'll learn not to compare her old home with her new one, she thinks, and hopes it will come soon. For now she sets the thought aside and enjoys her treat in good company, letting the happy chatter of even happier hobgoblins wash over her, warm and homely.

* * *

 

Late that evening, Tauriel patrols Dol Guldur again. She checks the fire in the kitchen and then walks around the animal pens and walks the cause ways, listening to the distant sounds of the hobgoblins finishing their day's tasks. There is a distant sound of Adalgrim and Gerontius talking as they put their tools away. Bandobras is still at the loom, the sound of beating heddle echoing every now and then. As she passes the animal pens, she spots Rorimac sneaking off to give Skitters a last, tempting treat.

So, the fortress quiets down for the night. Tauriel checks the perimeter thoroughly and then closes the gates and locks them again for the night, before heading back inward. She checks up on everyone, quietly counting heads, making sure everyone is where they ought to be.

Ferdinbrand and Mungo are fast asleep, and so are Reginard and Bungo, their long limbs spilling over their beds edges as they sleep, spread eagle and graceless. Bandobras passes her by on his way to his room, and bids her a quiet good night. Gerontius and Adalgrim are washing up after days' work as she checks on them, they'll be soon to bed as well. Isengrim has a guilty look when she passes her by – and crumbs on his chin, which tells her all she needs to know. Rorimac looks dejected but stubborn – apparently latest bit of persuading Skitters had failed, but he's not about to give up.

The Lord of Dol Guldur is nowhere to be found, however. He isn't in his room, or in the kitchen, the pantry is empty. Tauriel checks his usual haunts and then sighs and sets out again – for the highest tower in Dol Guldur, the place she knows he goes when he's feeling particularly melancholy.

And there he is, sitting on a old stone window ledge high above the rest of the fortress, pipe in hand, face lit in it's dim glow. Sun has set now and the moon is rising, painting the fortress of Dol Guldur in dim, cold light. The sky is almost cloudless, bar from thin wisps of white, turned grey in the darkness.

Even in the growing darkness, she can see it. Over Dol Guldur's walls, past the forest canopy, far, far to the north east, she can see it. It is only a faint shadow against the darkening sky, but it is there, the single solitary peak of the Lonely Mountain.

The Lord of Dol Guldur says nothing, just stares at the distant mountain, his expression drawn thoughtful and regretful. Tauriel listens to the silence, takes in it's tone – and then quietly sits beside him, upwind of him where she won't be in his smoke.

Neither of them break the silence.

Dol Guldur is build on regret and grown from grief, she knows. What Bilbo Baggins had buried in it's soil, she doesn't know for sure, but she can guess. She'd seen him cry at the funeral of Heirs of Durin's Line, after all, the same wretched tears she'd bit back herself with nary a success. Even now, looking at the mountain isn't easy. Even now, it still hurts.

They sit quietly for a long while, just watching the distant mountain and remembering all the things it could have been for them, all the things they'd lost there.

Then the Lord of Dol Guldur sucks in smoke and blows it out in a deep, deep sigh, blotting out the sky and the distant mountain for a moment, before getting quietly up again. He hops down from the window ledge and then holds out his hand, look of gentle understanding and uncomplicated kindness on his homely face.

Tauriel takes his hand and lets him lead her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's where I'll end it for now. This story was more about Tauriel growing and healing, and less about the potato orcs, so, I think this will do better for an ending than if I forced another funny scene about hobgoblins being planted and whatnot. I suppose I'll have Bilbo grow more hobgoblins if I do another sequel, but for now, this will be it.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this and thanks for reading and commenting :)


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